several hundred yards in our front.  The men lay in the road behind the stone fence without a dream of the enemy ever being able to rally and make an advance.  Some were inspecting their captured plunder; others sound asleep, after our five miles’ chase.  The sun was slowly sinking in the west.  Oh, what a glorious victory!  Men in their imagination were writing letters home, telling of our brilliant achievements—­thirty pieces of artillery captured, whole wagon trains of ordnance, from ten to twenty thousand stands of small arms, horses and wagons, with all of Sheridan’s tents and camp equippage—­all was ours, and the enemy in full retreat!

But the scenes are soon to be shifted.  Sheridan had been to Winchester, twenty miles away.  He hears the firing of guns in the direction of Fisher’s Hill, mounts his black charger, and with none to accompany him but an orderly, he begins his famous ride from Winchester.  Louder and louder the cannon roar, faster and faster his faithful steed leaps over the stoney pike, his rider plunging the steel rowels into the foaming sides.  Now he is near enough to hear the deep, rolling sound of the infantry, accompanied by the dreaded Rebel yell.  He knew his troops were retreating from the sound he hears.  A few more leaps, and he comes face to face with his panic stricken troops.  The road was crowded, the woods and fields on either side one vast swarm of fleeing fugatives.  A few of the faithful were still holding the Confederates at bay, while the mass were seeking safety in flight.  His sword springs from its scabbard, and waving it over his head, he calls in a loud voice, “Turn, boys, turn; we are going back.”  The sound of his voice was electrical.  Men halt, some fall, others turn to go back, while a few continue their mad flight.  A partial line is formed, Sheridan knowing the effect of a show of forward movement, pushes his handful of men back to meet the others still on the run.  They fall in.  Others who have passed the line in their rush, return, and in a few moments this wild, seething, surging, panic stricken mass had turned, and in well formed lines, were now approaching the cornfield and woods in which our pickets and skirmishers lay, all unconscious of the mighty change—­a change the presence of one man effected in the morale of the routed troops.  They rush upon our sharpshooters, capturing nearly the whole line, killing Captain Whitner, the commander, and either capturing or wounding nearly all the commissioned officers.  Before we knew it, or even expected it, the enemy was in our front, advancing in line of battle.  The men hadn’t time to raise a gun before the bullets came whizzing over our heads, or battering against the stone wall.  We noticed away to our right the lines give way.  Still Kershaw’s Brigade held their position, and beat back the enemy in our front.  But in the woods on our left some troops who were stationed there, on seeing the break in the line beyond us, gave way also.  Someone